To Bury Your Dread with You
by NRATQH
Summary: It was supposed to be just a drill. A rehearsal in the event of the real thing. Though sometimes Robin wonders if Batman stays up late just thinking of other contingencies he has to yet prepare his protégé for. In that Dick insists on being buried alive because apparently that's how all vigilantes deal with loss and grief. WARNINGS: Claustrophobia, Bruce being a well meaning idiot


It was supposed to be a drill. A rehearsal in a way since neither of them could well afford for the real thing. Especially, since it's always important to note that Bats never got to go through drills himself. He relieved his mistakes straight on, consequences and all which usually came in bloody capes and armor piercing bullet holes. Sometimes Robin wonders if Bruce stays up late just thinking of other contingencies he has to yet prepare his protégé for. Not that he's ungrateful for it of course. After all it's always better to learn how to relieve dangerous experiences in a controlled and safe environment as opposed to when he's running for his life. He appreciates it really. Though he does sometimes feel certain menial preparations are uncalled for. Or at least that seems to be Alfred's opinion of them, menial or otherwise. Which is probably why Bruce doesn't inform him about half of the more dangerous ones. But it's Alfred so Dicks betting his money on the fact that the guy already knows.

Though as he listens to the sound of dirt falling with hard thuds in his coffin, he can't help but wonder if the ever faithful butler knows about their current effort.

Dick tries not to panic. Bruce had been incredibly clear about how it was all just a simulation. Nothing real. Nothing _actually_ being shoveled on to his coffin. In fact he wasn't even in a coffin. Because coffins had spongy lining that made lying down in a comfortable pastime as opposed to the hard wooden panel he's lying against.

The pressure pushing against the creaking box is also fictitious he knows. But as he's lying prone within the confines of the casket, mulling over the thought doesn't do much against his strained nerves.

 _"It will all be a simulation"_ Bruce assured him for the umpteenth time since it had been proposed. But there's a glint of doubt in his eyes that prods a painful thrum in his own chest.

Robin had wanted this though. Begged for it in fact.

 _"It's necessary. Better you than the joker"_ he had insisted. Actually being on his knees would have done little to refine his plead.

At the clear refusal in his mentor's eyes, the young boy adds _"Make it a simulation then. Like you did with the fear gas. Just so I know how it feels. Please B."_

It had taken a bit more needling but Bruce finally relented. Dick remembers the gleam of pride he'd shown at how dedicated the young acrobat was to their cause and it had made him feel so alive.

He tries to remember and grasp that feeling as he enters the 10th minute of being stuck in this stupid pressurized wooden box.

In his defense it works for another 20 minutes before the drop of oxygen reaches a significant enough level that breathing becomes a chore.

"Don't panic" he thinks which is of course a bad idea because that only opens up the actual possibility of him panicking. So he tries to push his thoughts in a different direction. Tries to fight the accumulative feeling of claustrophobia by imagining himself flying through the air in one of his routines. But that only serves to remind him of his mother which wouldn't be a bad thing if it wasn't acquainted so closely to a sharp feeling of dread. It had barely been half a year after all since they fell. Since he hadn't managed to catch them.

"Ok stop!" he admonishes himself again for the intrusive thought, trying to instead remember more pleasant memories.

 _"We're not meant to sit still Dickie."_ His mother's words wash over him with a soothing sense of relief. Like a cooling balm spread over a wound. _"We're meant to fly. We're meant for the skies"._ But still, the reminiscence hits him with a hint of sadness. Like tendrils wrapping itself around his heart and giving it a painful squeeze and suddenly he wants to cry. He's wants to scream. He wants out. He feels drowned in a way that has nothing to do with the four tight walls that hold him.

He grits his teeth against the prickling, invasive desire and instead starts to sing.

 _He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease_

 _A daring young man on the flying Trapeze_

 _His movements were graceful, all girls he could please_

 _And my love he purloined away_

He repeats the chorus over and over until the hour finally ends, feeling the pressure release before the box opens. Oxygen rushes into his tiny space and his mouth hangs open to swallow the air greedily but he doesn't move.

"Dick?"

Strong hands burrow under his shoulder and lift him out and almost reflexively he curls up in his guardian's arms that in turn hold him close.

"Hey...shhhhh... it's ok. It's ok. I'm here. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have agreed to this". Bruce's voice is thick like he's speaking through gritted teeth. The rise of his chest uneven as if he's holding back sobs. On a normal day Dick would've leaped at the chance to comfort and assuage the much older man but at that particular moment there's a heaviness in his limbs that refuses to fade and instead he clings ever closer to the fabric of his guardian's shirt.

A part of Dick wants to concur. Wants to protest that he's too young for this. Too young to be pushing himself so hard. Too young to be feeling this desperate need to improve and be better. To rise above and beyond what is required of a boy his age.

But a bitter voice in his head snaps back that he'd been too young to lose his parents too and he recoils.

"No. No it's ok Bruce. I needed this. It's ok. I needed this. Thank you"

He attempts to assure the vigilante but it only succeeds in the man pulling him ever closer to his chest.

"No chum. No it's not. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You're still hurting and I didn't notice. I didn't see it. I'm so sorry chum"

"I did it though. I did good didn't I?"

He gets a warm, lingering peck on his forehead for his trouble.

"You did great chum. Better than I expected. You always do"

The praise envelopes him like a temperate sun on a sunny day of spring and he feels the tightness in his chest loosen as he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd held. The taut, rigid spring of his muscles uncoil. He opens his eyes and raises them to meet his mentor's and he sees in them the same thing he saw the first time they'd met.

Understanding. Comprehension. Not only of the pain he felt but the overwhelming desire to fight tooth and nail against the numbness that threatened to drag him screaming into nothing. It fills him with a burning gratitude and he can't help but think that maybe, it's enough for now. Dick is still in pieces. It's been months and he still feels fragmented. As if pieces of him had been scattered across the floor of that circus the same way his parents had and he still hasn't managed to gather himself up. He wishes he wasn't so desperate to feel complete and collected again. But he is and he can't help but hope that maybe one day he won't be so broken. Though as he relaxes in Bruce's arms, he concludes that until then, maybe they'll help each other feel whole. Maybe that's all he can do for now. Maybe that's all either of them can do and maybe -for the time being- it'll be enough to get him through the day.


End file.
